


Corrosion

by Doceo_Percepto



Series: Bendy's Murderous Adventure Across Moominvalley [31]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine, Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Blood, Other, Rape/Non-con Elements, an unsuccessful blowjob, chemically burning mucous membranes, lots of blood, mentioned necrophilia, some feels if you can get past how evil bendy and the joxter are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-26 15:55:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15666447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doceo_Percepto/pseuds/Doceo_Percepto
Summary: The Joxter is dying. He knows why, but he doesn't want to face it.





	Corrosion

Something is not quite right. Something has not been right for a long time, but it’s getting much worse.

When the Joxter wakes every morning, his throat is thick with clotted blood and phlegm. It’s routine, now, to cough rusted red on his gloves. The speckles and lumps are like a warning sign: Danger. He had never liked signs, and he likes this one the least.

“The dry weather,” he dismisses. Or perhaps, “the wind, darling, it can be very sharp for mumriks like me.” It’s anything. Anything at all except the ink smell that burns his raw throat. A baby panic coils up, well hidden, in his chest.

During the day, the irritated tissues of his throat continue to sting. He tastes blood always now, no matter what he eats or drinks. He smells it constantly. That panic swells. Soon enough, it’s a constant presence, like an acorn buried in the valves of his heart. It throbs at seemingly random times: while eating meals, settling in for sleep, hunting, fishing. It’s as if the acorn has gotten stuck, squeezed in tender cardiac muscle, setting his heart to an arrhythmic, painful beating. He dislikes it. It demands attention and thought and action, and he’d much rather continue on exactly as he always had.

He enjoys his life. It’s a simple life, as all Joxters like to enjoy, and he had never bothered to imagine changing anything about it. Except now it’s becoming very _difficult_ to enjoy, what with the abrasive panic and the blood.

For a while, sleep is a reprieve. In a dreamless sleep, there is no concern. Just peace. He sleeps for longer and longer periods of time. But then that stops being an option, because lying horizontal makes it worse. Nowadays, he jerks awake, unable to breathe past liquid, and he vomits over the side of the canoe until he can suck in air again.

The first time this happens, he lifts his head haggardly, and two eyes, stark against the white of an otherworldly face, are watching him from the primordial darkness of the forest. Bendy is very attuned to the sight and smell of blood. It's the thing he perceives better than anything else. The Joxter’s got his entire attention, and it’s not out of concern, but out of hunger.

The Joxter licks filmy teeth. The acorn shifts in his blood stream, and he feels its rough edges scraping delicate tissue. “I’ll clean it in the morning,” he says, and slumps back into the canoe.

In the morning, Bendy and the Joxter both agree (wordlessly) that nothing happened. Some things are better to not acknowledge. Bendy goes right back to his usual amiable nature. He’s a very good friend, understanding these things. But the Joxter doesn’t stop coughing up blood. The idea of mortality seems to be hovering ever closer, and it’s an odd, uncomfortable idea. All things know they will die, and to some extent he had been content with that.

He suddenly feels less content.

“Let’s go hunting,” he suggests, even though they had gone only two weeks ago, and Bendy knows this is odd, but death is death, and he’ll never refuse a hunt. The Joxter needs to immerse himself in something. Needs to be up and moving and doing (needs to see something else die). It’s not a feeling he’s used to. Like running from something that relentlessly pursues. Stand still too long; it will get him.

Hunting is good. The Joxter is the one pursuing, then. A week of travel earns him a new Snufkin.

The Joxter’s rutting inside the Snufkin while Bendy holds him down (claws popping into his skin), when he inexplicably goes soft – something he’s never had trouble with, not with a good screaming Snufkin under him. But everyone has bad days, the Joxter supposes.

He hands him over to Bendy, who spears the Snufkin through his cunt and out his chest. The Joxter watches as the blood sets him into a frenzy. The Snufkin, as they all tend to, ends in pieces, and once Bendy’s good and done, he eats the bits for good measure.

Bendy has no need to eat. He does it purely for pleasure. The Joxter has never thought about it before, but Bendy often does this _after_ they’re already dead. This means the sensation of eating on its own, irrespective of any horror and screaming, is something that he finds appealing. For the taste of blood, perhaps, and crunching of meat and bones. Purely corporeal things. That seems quite distinct from simply enjoying a good distressed Snufkin. It seems like something he’d enjoy with any sort of body, Snufkin or not.

The thick reek of ink is worse when he’s in this form. It grates the Joxter’s throat. He swallows furiously, but can’t stop it. He twists to the side, spits up blood and bile.

When the Joxter looks up, Bendy’s tiny and innocent looking, if not for the blood mixed with his ink, and for whatever mangled bits of meat are left scattered behind him.

“That was lovely,” the Joxter says, wiping his lips.

“Kiss me,” Bendy says. He doesn’t ask that often. It doesn’t do much for him. Not normally.

“Not now, darling. I’m exhausted. Let’s find a nice place to nap, hmm?”

He grabs the Joxter’s wrist. His eyes are intent and so very dark.

“C’mon, just one kiss. I’ll make it good.”

“Bendy-“

His free hand gropes between the Joxter’s legs.

“That’s enough of that.” His voice doesn’t waver. He’s not sure how to tell Bendy that, but he hope he understands, that it didn’t waver. That he is not worried, but it’s very inappropriate for Bendy to behave in this way when the Joxter isn’t cozily settled in a nest, or a patch of flowers.

The Joxter bats away his hand, and tugs out of his grip.

He truly aches for his lovely canoe-nest, but it’s a week’s travel away. In its absence, he finds a nice furrow at the base of a tree, sprouting with soft flowers, and here he curls up, wiping away filmy blood that drips from his nose.

It takes Bendy no time at all to wiggle up, and he's groping into the Joxter’s pants.

The Joxter tries to roll onto his belly. A firm hand pins him to his back. The image of a mouse squashed beneath a bird of prey’s talons comes to his mind. He’s not frightened. But he does sit up, feeling just a tad more comfortable that way. “Use your mouth,” he suggests. If Bendy’s going to do it anyway, then his mouth is nicer.

He’s quick to tug the Joxter’s trousers down, and the Joxter wiggles a bit to make it easier, and then he’s licking and swallowing around him. The Joxter’s silent, huffing softly through his parted lips. There’s a minute of nothing but wet noises. He lets his eyes slide shut. Yes, this is good. This feels nice.

Then Bendy cups the back of the Joxter’s neck, pulls himself up and they’re kissing.

This is what Bendy really wanted. The Joxter can tell right away. His tongue is invasive in a way he had never been with the Joxter before, licking along the inside of his teeth and the roof of his mouth, chasing after any hint of blood-taste.

The Joxter gags, tenses, tries to say something and fails as his slick tongue winds down his throat. The Joxter has seen him do this dozens of times, but never had it done to himself. It burns like acid, and wet coughs spasm around the tongue that’s now choking him.

It’s thankfully brief, as Bendy allows him to jerk his head away, and then the Joxter coughs out ink flecked with blood. He’s soft now, again. Perhaps he’s simply not up for sex tonight after all. Bendy redirects, lowers his head between his legs again, and this time the Joxter stands abruptly, tugging up his pants. “I’m going to take a walk," he rasps, and the tender tissues of his throat sear bad enough that the Joxter nearly clutches his neck.

Bendy looks up, confused. “You didn’t finish.”

“I suppose I’m not in the mood," the Joxter forces out through the pain. That’s that. The Joxter stuffs his paws into his pockets and sulks off into the darkness of the forest.

The niggling panic blooms new vines and tangles and acorns, that scrawl out from the valves of his heart and into all the little tubes that reach every extremity of his body. It urges him to think about things. Strategize. But he doesn’t want to think about anything. He’s not in the habit of thinking about much, except whatever he wants to do in a given moment, and when the next nap is coming. He pulls out his pipe and smokes (this makes him cough now, too, and it really hurts, but he loves his pipe, why stop something you love?).

Thoughts trickle in, whether he likes them or not.

The first thought is that he likes Bendy. He likes how awful he is. The Joxter was kicked out of the only Joxter nest he had known, because he was considered too awful. The things he did were _too_ extreme. Mutilating Snufkins while he fucked them. Screwing old, cooled corpses when nothing else was available. Becoming obsessed with individual Snufkins and wishing to see their insides on the outside. These were all things other Joxters evidently found objectionable, for whatever reason. It was on those grounds they chased him from the nest and warned him to never return. They were simply too mild. But Bendy – how absolutely refreshing he had been. The Joxter was positively delighted upon finding him, screwing a Snufkin into pieces with a dick that was more a weapon than anything else. What a marvel. A gloriously nightmarish marvel that doesn’t at all mind the Joxter’s many and varied quirks.

He’s never genuinely thought about going separate ways. Bendy is the Joxter’s nest now. Has been for years. But – the Joxter’s mind slips away from the thought like water. It takes him a second to recollect. He’s never thought about being alone again. Why should he? Bendy is quite perfect. Gracious about sex (normally). Keen understanding of the purpose of Snufkins. He can be irritatingly talkative, but it’s tolerable (the Joxter rather enjoys it, except when he’s trying to sleep). So why leave?

Again he ducks around the reason. Old habits are hard to break. A fresh bout of coughing seizes him, though, and the thought peeks in. No. He determinedly thinks of nothing. Nothing. Wasn’t the night sky beautiful? The smoke is scalding his throat. It hurts bad enough that tears are pricking at his eyes.

He twists around, spits up vile metallic phlegm. Ah, pesky pipe. It’ll kill him in the end.

Then the idea sneaks up on him and pounces: Bendy’s going to kill him in the end. Intentionally or not.

The Joxter’s hands shake. See, this is just the sort of mental torment he was trying to avoid. What a mess. What an exhausting amount of effort. He’d really rather curl up and sleep.

Yes, that seems best. He snuffs out his pipe and wanders back. Bendy apologizes when he returns to the temporary nest – and that’s a good sign, the Joxter tells himself. Nothing has changed. Nothing at all.

He doesn't sleep, because his throat feels like claws are gouging into it over and over again, worse than in any kind of sickness the Joxter has ever had. But that's okay. He's just sick, and things will go back to normal.

 

 

Things do go back to normal. So long as he ignores some things, like the constant pain. If he ignores the way Bendy looks at him sometimes, the same way he often looks at Snufkins.

The Joxter thinks Bendy is trying to ignore it too, though he’s about as successful as him. Perhaps they’re simply not convinced enough. Given enough time, they’ll both be convinced. It will be okay (he’s dying).

The Joxter has nightmares now. Never did before. But they’re nightmares that make him uneasy about being near Bendy. Nothing too worrisome. Nothing unmanageable.

Once he jerks awake, and Bendy’s right there beside him. The Joxter’s reaction is undignified and unsuitable, before he heaves over the side of the canoe and little strings of blood dangle from his lips.

“Curse that night air-“ the Joxter grumbles, his voice raw and painful to use.

Finally, after so many other successful excuses, Bendy blurts, “that’s not what it is.”

The Joxter stills. Wonders if he knows.

“I know humans – mumriks –“ Bendy looks frustrated. “I know that ain’t normal. I always knew, since it started. So what is it? How do we fix it? How do we stop it?”

Ah. So he doesn’t know. He simply played along with the Joxter’s silence about it, because that’s what they did: played along with each other’s realities, without even knowing why half the time. The Joxter wipes his lips. “I’m sick,” he settles on. Sickness is something vague to Bendy – something he understands, but only to some extent, because he’s seen Snufkins pale and sniffing, else riddled with infection or wrought with fever. He understands it as a general concept of unwellness, and nothing more.

“You need food, then,” Bendy says. “And water, and sleep.”

“Yes,” the Joxter replies. That is indeed how Bendy learned to treat sickness.

Then Bendy’s expression scrunches. “But you already get those things. And you’ve been sick for months.”

“Some sickness is like that.” Every syllable hurts. The Joxter wants to drink water to wash it down, but he’s afraid of fleshy bits of his flesh being washed down with the water. Silly and impractical idea. But he doesn’t reach for a canteen. Drinking hurts anyway.

“It bothers me,” Bendy says.

“I’ll work on getting better,” the Joxter answers.

 

 

The Joxter does not eat or drink as much as he once did. The body beneath his overcoat gets thinner and thinner, and he didn’t have much weight to begin with. But eating and drinking both feel like they're ripping into the inside of his throat. His lungs feel full of liquid. He doesn’t want to do much of anything. He doesn’t know what to do.

Bendy brings him new foods, carries fresh cool water from the streams, and pastes bandages over his coat as if that would do anything. He’s heartbreakingly confused. Trying to help wherever he can. But the Joxter suspects the scent of blood perpetually on the wind puts him on edge. He goes off on his own more often now, and comes back with the scent of Snufkin on him. Getting his fill. The Joxter’s uneasiness grows. He's barely eating. The pain is terrible enough that he's not sleeping, either. It's worse whenever Bendy's close, especially when they're sharing the nest. 

Then, one day, Bendy is off hunting. The Joxter gets out of his canoe, and starts walking. He doesn’t stop. It’s not necessarily a conscious decision. If he thinks about it, he might stop, and go back. Or he might agree it’s for the best. Either way, he doesn’t want to think about it.

For all his beautifully atrocious abilities, Bendy cannot at all track things. He can’t sense across miles like Joxters, and he can’t read the land or the signs people leave on it. If the Joxter does not want to be found by Bendy, then Bendy absolutely will not be able to find him.

That sounds terribly final, though.

Perhaps, the Joxter thinks to himself, he is merely talking a walk. Perhaps he’ll loop back around before sundown, and Bendy will greet him back as he always does, and nothing will be different.

Then the sun wanes. The Joxter’s feet ache. He's exhausted beyond measure, having not slept or ate properly in weeks. Night covers the land. If he returns now, it still would not be strange. Bendy would simply understand he’d taken a longer walk, perhaps fell asleep on the way, or found a Snufkin. Perhaps they could make it up with sex, as they hadn't done that in a very very long time. The Joxter simply hadn't been in the mood, for Bendy or for Snufkins. Such is sickness.

But he does not turn around. Instead, he curls up at the base of a tree, and feels quite alone. It has been a long, long time since he was alone. Not since before Bendy, after he was kicked out from his nest. Where he slept alone, as Joxters are not meant to be, curled up in trees listening to the sounds of the forest and aching for a body, alive or not, to be with him.

Despite his exhaustion, sleep does not come. The loneliness deepens. He wonders if he should have left a note.

Bendy is a demon. He can take care of himself just fine, and surely he won’t miss a simple mumrik? But the Joxter knows that isn’t true. Yes, Bendy’s perfectly capable of looking after himself, but just like the Joxter, he craves companionship and feels loneliness. A note would have been nice.

 

The next day, the Joxter talks to himself. Or he talks to Bendy, at least, but Bendy isn’t there.

“I’ve simply been spoiled,” he gripes.Talking hurts. Quite badly. Very very badly, actually. But he's on his way to healing, he's sure of it, and there's no need to be delicate. “Years and years with you around. I never really counted how many, you know. Now I suppose I need to find a Joxter nest…” but there’s some doubt there, because other Joxters don’t particularly like him, and he knows none of them would be quite the same as Bendy. “Perhaps a Snufkin,” he then says uncertainly. 

Bendy normally did the whole business of catching Snufkins and holding them down, while Joxter enjoyed himself on their bodies. The idea of doing everything on his own, especially in his condition…

The Joxter pulls out a pipe to soothe his consternation, but it’s not long before he’s forced to stop, when he spends more time coughing than inhaling, and the pain brings him to tears again.

The coughing from his pipe doesn’t stop, even after the Joxter puts it out. When he looks at his gloves, there are chunks of bloody flesh. He wonders somewhat distantly if it’s from his throat or lungs. It feels very much like both are wet and inflamed. Well, a little fresh air is sure to help. The thick stench of ink is no longer around (just some dotted on his cloak, but that’s nothing much), and so it would only be up from here.

The Joxter shakes off the blood from his hand. Only up from here. Pity that little panic is still nestled in his chest – doesn’t it know there’s no reason to be there?

“It’s a vacation,” the Joxter states.

Nobody is there to reply.

“Then I’ll return to the nest. Many more years ahead of-” he decides to stop talking, or the coughing decides for him. It's rather hard to breathe.

He should have put the vacation bit in a note, yes. He thinks of Bendy, curled up in the canoe, waiting for the Joxter to return. Waiting. Waiting.

The two of them have never been much for discussing matters outright. Normally they simply agree upon everything important and understand each other without speaking. But this is something Bendy hadn’t understood at all. Likewise, he wouldn't understand when the Joxter did not return this day, or the next, or the next. 

The Joxter scoffs at himself. Yes. It was wrong to leave without saying anything at all. He would go back. He would explain, and Bendy would understand, and it'd be quite simple. Look at him, investing drama and effort where there need not to be any (except he'd left in case Bendy decided some things were inevitable, that the blood was best to indulge in before-). He should have done this from the start, telling Bendy outright. Incredibly discourteous of him not to.

The Joxter turns to head back to the nest. He's several hours into the trip when something very much like a thick stone wrapped in sticky blood lodges in his throat. 

If one were watching from the outside, they'd see him stagger, clutch his neck. They'd see him fall to his knees and heave, his Adam's apple working frantically while his skin pales and bright bright red blood dribbles from his lips. They'd see him scratching at himself like a wild animal, as his face blooms a purplish red and his eyes go bloodshot.

Then that is that. He goes limp; an emaciated body buried in layers of dirty green cloth, with a respiratory system much like minced and chemically burned meat. A corpse alone in the woods, far from any nest or any home.

 


End file.
